All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. And—the idea of committees, of hustings, of agenda-papers!” “I don’t see why the responsibility of beauty should all be shifted on to the women,” said Ann Veronica, suddenly remembering a part of Miss Miniver’s discourse. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one.
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